Beyond the Calm of the Corridor
by Sadie Flood
Summary: Three separate vignettes that aren't about love.
1. don't leave the light on, baby

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone. :)  
  
* * *  
  
She swears every time she lets this happen will be the last, and it never is.  
  
He is her closest confidante, who knows enough of her secrets to sink her ship. He is her worst enemy, who knows exactly how to play into every tested weakness when the whim strikes him. She loves him when the game's on and hates him when she loses.  
  
These days, she always loses.  
  
The reasons she used to give him to go away when he turned up at her door were vulnerable to attack: we're such good friends, let's don't screw this up, if this happens again we'll never be able to work together, nothing will ever be the same. It was easy to defeat her defenses then; we are, it won't, we will, it will.   
  
The reasons she gives him now are more concrete, but he still assures her this time isn't like all the others. He needs her at his side now more than ever on evenings like this, when Andi looks at him like he stole so many years from her life. He says he needs her like this when his children, so small, stare at him uncomprehendingly, as if he is another stranger paraded in front of them to coo in awe at their newborn beauty, but one who keeps returning; a familiar stranger whose name they'll never remember when they're old enough to string letters into words and words into sentences.   
  
She is tempted to suggest that he take up drinking instead, because at least the brandy wouldn't hate him in the morning, but that joke wouldn't amuse either of them at this hour.  
  
She wishes she had something better to do that would make it easier to close the door in his face, but she doesn't, so she doesn't.   
  
She can look Andi in the eye and smile, because it doesn't matter. He can talk to her like he can barely be bothered to remember her name during the day, the same way he talks to almost everyone else, because it doesn't matter. She can turn him away when she's otherwise occupied, and he won't be jealous, because it doesn't matter.   
  
And she swears every time she lets this happen will be the last, but it never is. 


	2. the man who murdered love

"I know what you need," she says.  
  
He likes to watch her get progressively more intoxicated as the night wears on. These nights are relatively rare lately; he drinks slowly, trying to make this one last longer. These are the moments that have cemented their friendship, he thinks, and if he could find a way to say that to her that wouldn't make it sound like he was trying to let her down easy, he would. But he can't. So he just watches the focus fade from her gaze.  
  
"I do. I do know," she repeats. "Do you want to know?"  
  
"No." She just stares at him, or possibly at something over his shoulder, he can't quite tell. "Sorry. I mean, yes." He takes a short sip.  
  
"You need a new wardrobe."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"That's why you feel so old."  
  
"I don't feel old."  
  
"You do too. You feel like you're losing touch with your youth."  
  
And it's easy for her to sit back and smile, knowing she's at least half-right, because she doesn't know how it feels. So he tries not to be offended. "I do not," he insists. "I wasn't even in touch with my youth when I was living it."  
  
"But you still feel old. I should take you shopping."  
  
"Then I'd just be one of those guys who dresses too young for his age in an attempt to attract younger women. Or any women."  
  
"I like those guys," she slurs.  
  
"I like my wardrobe."  
  
"Don't you want to attract younger women?"  
  
"No."  
  
"What's wrong with us?"  
  
She doesn't really want to know the answer, and if he tried to explain he'd just come off as condescending, which already happens so often that he really doesn't need another excuse to throw wood on that particular fire. So he just smiles and says, "Nothing."  
  
"I know that smile. That's the smile of, 'I'm going to get in trouble if I tell you the truth.'"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"No, it's nothing."  
  
"Too inexperienced."  
  
"No."  
  
"Not smart enough."  
  
"No."  
  
"Every 'no' is a 'yes,' isn't it?" she says, in that suspicious tone that veers from a whine to a wail.  
  
"No."  
  
"I knew it." She sighs and finishes the last of her drink. Then she surveys him briefly as he takes another sip and glances around the room. But he's had more to drink than he thought, because he can't remember what happened between that moment and the next, which found her settled on his lap.   
  
She leans in and whispers, "I know what you need."  
  
And he knows he'll have to put a stop to this, but he tries to make it last. "What's that?"  
  
"You need a younger woman. You need me. When are you going to realize that?"  
  
Josh would tell her why that's untrue, but it would sound like he was trying to break her heart, and she wouldn't remember any of it in the morning anyway, except for maybe the indecipherable physical memory of having her heart mutilated, so he doesn't explain anything. He just stands up, and in a rare moment of physical grace manages to pull her to her feet as well.  
  
"What *you* need is a designated driver," he says, trying to be gentle about it. "Come on, I'll call you a cab."   
  
And he walks to the door without looking back to see if she's following. 


	3. the threads of recent slumbers

This can never be more than it is, even if she would like to spend the night.   
  
The room is pitch black and silent except for their breathing. She can hear Amy making an effort to keep her breaths long and even, pretending she's asleep so she won't have to deal with this.   
  
She wishes she had the same luxury.  
  
But she doesn't, so she's feeling around on the carpet for discarded shoes and pantyhose. Each time this happens she swears she'll fold her things neatly and leave them on a chair before the lights go out, but it never seems to happen that way.  
  
It's almost as if every time comes as a surprise, as if this isn't planned, except of course it is. Maybe pretending it isn't is just part of the charade that seems to be necessary for them both.  
  
She knows why it's necessary for her, but Amy's motives are less clear, and it isn't a question she'll ever be able to ask.   
  
When she finally locates all of her missing belongings--at least, she thinks they're hers, and if they aren't, it's just something to sort out next time--she leaves without saying goodbye.  
  
She wonders if that bothers Amy; she wonders if that's why she does it, to preserve the distance between them.   
  
Because this can never be more than what it is, and that's why she always leaves before dawn. 


End file.
